


Porcelain

by ThePrettiestStar



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, but its not super angsty, implied alcohol and drug abuse, it's not graphic though i promise, this is my first fic and i dont know how to tag things im Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrettiestStar/pseuds/ThePrettiestStar
Summary: Howard Moon will never forget the boy he fell in love with - not that he'll ever want to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi there this is my first fic and i'm hyped but terrified to be putting it Out There i know it isn't very long and i'm Sorry lol but if you could spare a minute and give me some feedback i'd be super super grateful thank you so much!!! <3

A thing of beauty is a joy forever - you’ve always been living proof of that.

I remember the day we met. It was a Thursday evening in the middle of November and all the trains were late. You worked in the coffee shop just outside St Pancras, the one with the peeling yellow paint on the door. I ordered a drink and you giggled when I couldn’t pick my change up with my gloves on. I looked atrocious and you looked flawless, expertly ruffled and a perfectly practiced smirk on your lips. You told me your name as I left, and I told you mine. I stopped by most evenings after that, whether I wanted coffee or not.

I remember the first time you took me out, too. You were waiting in front of Camden Lock on that old red Vespa you were so proud of, your breath misting into graceful clouds and your foot tapping to a beat only you could hear. You looked so tiny, all coat and scarf and mittens, the ecstatic grin of a child playing on your face as you watched the snow dance on the wind and come to rest at your feet. I couldn’t help but drink in every detail; the glimmer in your eyes, snowflakes nestled like stars in the twilight of your hair, the soft rosy tint of your cheeks standing out against your alabaster skin.  
And when you ran to meet me, I could see so much more. How you had to stand on your toes to fling your arms around my neck, how you dipped your head when you laughed, how you stood with your toes pointed inwards and your hands behind your back. You were made of sunshine in the dusk of my world; you could have lit up the whole of London if you tried.

I remember when you’d come home at three in the morning, almost too drunk to stand, reeking of smoke and alcohol and vomit and something I could never put my finger on. You’d never tell me where you’d been. You’d collapse on the sofa and I’d try to clean you up, but it was always hopeless; you’d bat my hands away and eventually succumb to the drink, falling into an impossibly deep slumber I couldn’t hope to shake you out of. Your clothes were in tatters from where you’d fallen over, the blood on your knees shining in the dim light. Your eyeliner was smudged all down your cheeks, your lipgloss shimmering on the back of your hand, glitter caked and glinting under your fingernails, sweat glistening on your forehead. Beautiful in the most disgusting ways. You were astonishingly pale under the moonlight, the sharp angles of your face given terrible shadows that made you look so fragile. Like porcelain. I was worried you'd break.  
There were cracks, definitely. Neither of us could deny it. At first I pretended I couldn’t see them. I pretended you were still the sweet, naive, radiant boy who had first taken my breath away on that cold winter’s evening. I watched them grow and grow - I thought you were going to fall apart. I felt selfish, ignoring it, but thinking about it almost reduced me to tears. I thought you were so delicate.

How could I have doubted you.

I remember when we would watch the sunrise. You’d creep into my room at the crack of dawn like a child at Christmas to wake me up, then perch on the windowsill while I made the tea. I used to watch you from the kitchen, sitting with your nose up against the window and hands pressed against the glass. You were so pale, always so pale. But I knew I didn't need to worry anymore. You looked calm. Ethereal. Peaceful. I’d sit down next to you while we watched the stars fade and the sky go from black to orange to yellow to pink. You’d lean your head on my shoulder and I’d hold your hand, and you’d tell me you loved me and I’d tell you the same, and we both knew that nothing could ever break us apart. You certainly weren’t fine china; if life is a kiln, after all it had fired at you, you were indestructible. Turns out you weren’t as fragile as I thought. Porcelain may be breakable, but you, my darling…

 

You were not.


End file.
